Familiarity
by Aranea Porcus
Summary: It's still snowing when Fushimi catches him and his skateboard along the street, and finds that he is only a shell of what used to be Yata. This is a post-series oneshot (therefore spoilers), and is friendship-oriented SaruMi; there is no romance intended in this one. (T for language w)


**Warning: spoilers for the end. K project is not of my creation; I am only a lowly internet addict who just happens to write. And again, this one is meant to be based around friendship.**

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It had already been two weeks after the events at Ashinaka High, and Fushimi was still swamped with reports and such from the irritating media hyenas, eager to snap up Scepter 4's take on what occurred during that time – perhaps, they pressed, an exclusive interview with the Blue King himself? Fushimi denied all those who asked – after all, Reisi was in no shape to be answering petty questions about the skirmishes of Kings. Fushimi had noticed the new ashtray so conveniently placed behind the hardly-diminishing stacks of papers, forms and reports at the King's desk, and said King's new habit of withdrawing into the four corners of his office. He'd also taken a sudden liking to jigsaw puzzles in shades of red, and went about putting the pieces together, taking them apart, and putting them together again, as if that would solve the larger, more difficult puzzle that he was stuck in himself. Of course, with the Director in such a state and the press biting at their heels, it was left to Fushimi and Awashima to clear up the tracks, which resulted in Fushimi working overtime. A lot. In fact, he had just been released from work near midnight and was returning home from a pit-stop near a convenience store when a blurry figure knocked into him, causing him to lose his balance and nearly topple over.

"Th' fuck's your problem?" exclaimed the person who had knocked into Fushimi. He had been knocked off the skateboard he was riding on, and he had fallen onto the pavement and scraped his knees and his palms, and gotten his trousers soaked from the slush on the pavement. His classic beanie was pulled over his ears to shield the cold, and his cheeks and fingertips were flushed from the chill. As he looked up his mouth hung slightly open in shock, before he narrowed his eyes in disgust and hissed, "Fuckin' monkey, the hell's your deal?"

"I could ask you the same, Mi~sa~ki," Fushimi retorted, drawing out the syllables in Yata's name, a wretched grin slowly taking shape. Despite that, he actually wasn't in the mood to deal with Yata just then – it was near midnight, it was snowing and cold, and Fushimi was badly worn-out. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. The best he could do was to send Yata packing before their encounter unfolded to become an all-out fight. "What're you doing out so late, hmm? Shouldn't you be at that ratty bar?"

"Piss off," Yata stood, dusting himself off and wincing at the abrasions on his knees and palms along with the disgusting wet feeling of his clothes. He rested his wet skateboard vertically on the floor, supporting it with his hands, and looked to his left, at nothing in particular. This caught Fushimi's attention, and his grin faded to nothing more than a sulky frown. Shouldn't he have made more of a fuss than that? Fushimi had just insulted Homra's base of operations, after all. Fushimi decided to stand and wait, the handles of his plastic bag resting in his closed fist. "I don't feel like going back to the bar," Yata added curtly.

Fushimi was puzzled at what Yata said – wasn't that stupid Homra his home? The pride and joy that Yata had fought time and again for? Fushimi suspected that him acting out of character had more than a little to do with Mikoto's passing. Surely it had to be that. If Fushimi looked close enough, he could see that the flames in Yata had long been extinguished, put out by the heaviness that was the untimely death of his King. Fushimi grew sullen; the way he did when he was thinking about something important. Usually he would have done something more to tease a reaction out of the shorter male, but it was evident that Yata wouldn't have given him more than a cursory "fuck you" if need be, and Fushimi was sure that it wasn't because he was cold. Something stirred in him – the same swelling of the heart he felt when Yata had cried out, chest burning with the short promise of the Red King's imminent danger. Fushimi watched as Yata shifted his weight from one leg to the other, looking hesitant to leave. And so Fushimi, blaming his change of heart on the cold weather, sidestepped past Yata and begun to head home, but not before uttering, "If your stupid bar is too dingy for you, you can come get a better place to pass out." And as Fushimi walked he threw a quick glance backward, and was mildly relieved that Yata was following behind him, albeit at a distance.

It took a few minutes to reach Fushimi's apartment, though the freezing snow made the journey seem like hours. Fushimi was glad to unlock the door and step inside onto his carpeted floor where he would be safe from the horrors of the cold outside. Yata stepped in after him and shut the door, locking it, and Fushimi pretended that he wasn't there and left him to his own devices until he shed the outer coat of his uniform, switched on the heater and decided to make a calming cup of hot chocolate for the two of them each. He carried both cups to the low coffee table where Yata was sitting on the floor, staring sullenly ahead and lost in thought. Fushimi placed a steaming cup right in front of Yata, jolting him out of his ocean of thoughts, before sitting on the floor at the side of the table next to where Yata was. Yata didn't say anything, and only looked down. Eventually Fushimi grew tired of Yata's quietness and clicked his tongue, grumbling, "I'm not poisoning you. Drink."

"It's..." Yata started, and stopped. Fushimi sipped out of his cup, and watched Yata over the rim. "Two weeks. Only two," Yata chuckled hoarsely. Fushimi tensed up, sensing that some dramatic and overly heavy words would soon be spoken by Yata. He was never good at handling Yata in his more emotional states, and hoped that he didn't have to do so now.

"We're all devastated, you know. Even Kusanagi-san is..." Yata paused, hands clenching his cup. "They've stopped coming, one by one. Anna doesn't even leave _his_ room. I don't know what to do anymore," he continued, softly and slowly, as if each word he spoke was a dagger through his heart.

"Homra is falling to pieces, you know?" Yata blinked, eyebrows furrowing and the skin at the sides of his eyes creasing. "That's probably what you wanted all along, right? You happy now, are you?" Yata suddenly snapped, voice wavering ever-so slightly, and shot a glare in Fushimi's direction.

_Why'd he turn this personal? _ Fushimi clicked his tongue and frowned, averting his gaze. It wasn't as if he _hated _Homra. Well, maybe he did - after all, the people there were generally low-lifes with nothing better to do - and although he never said it outright, Fushimi was absolutely terrified of their king. He didn't know what was it about him that made everyone else admire him. Whenever Suoh used his red aura Fushimi had to use all the willpower he had to stop him from crumpling onto the ground in fear. It irked him so – but that was besides the point. The reason why he left Homra, the _real_ reason, was—

"Fuckin' _say_ something, won't you?!" Yata shouted, nostrils flaring and the ball of his chin wobbling like a child's before crying. "Stop being so quiet! You're just sitting there, looking at me – the fuck you want?!" Yata roared, gripping the cup tighter than before. "You're happy, right? Then why aren't you showing it? This is what you've been waiting for! Totsuka-san is gone, and Mikoto-san is gone too – I'm all alone now!"

And with that Yata's voice cracked and he gritted his teeth. Looking down, he began to shake, his shoulders jerking erratically as the grip on the cup tightened further (Fushimi hoped it wouldn't break). "I only have you left..." Yata managed, and began to rub his eyes and nose, the softest of sobs escaping past his lips as Yata tried to restrain himself from crying before the person he once called "friend".

Fushimi sat and watched, unsure of what to do or say. He was utter crap with words and pretty much crap with Yata in general. Ages ago he'd told himself, "If I'm not important anymore then I'll leave!" And then resigned himself to months of feigned contempt – he'd carried on for so long he almost believed it himself. But only almost.

The last time Fushimi saw Yata cry was at Totsuka's funeral - a quick, simple ceremony that Fushimi wouldn't have bothered to remember, if not for Yata's sobbing. At that moment he felt powerless, unable to ease the pain of a friend he cared so deeply about. Not to mention that his friend was crying in the vicinity of his newly-found clansmates, more stupid vassals under one stupid king. They were swarming around him like moths to a light, offering half-hearted hugs and teary words of comfort. Yata was out of his reach, and Fushimi was too powerless to do anything about it. That was what Fushimi felt like just then, in his apartment, with Yata crying again in his living room (over another blasted member of Homra), salty tears spilling into the cooled hot chocolate. Too far away, unable to reach.

Fushimi felt like breaking something. Perhaps the wall of silence that stood between him and Yata, or maybe just the wall of his own insecurity and paranoia. Even Yata's words, spoken only in a moment of agitation and loneliness, were not enough to turn Fushimi completely around. He'd gone so far already, far enough to make Yata livid at the mere mention of his name. Of course, this sort of attention wasn't what Fushimi would have preferred, but beggars weren't choosers. He couldn't afford to be kind now. Not after all he'd done already. Not anymore.

_Just keep telling yourself that_, another part of Fushimi whispered. It was liberating, like the first time Fushimi told himself about Homra, "I really hate this stinkin' place." Fushimi almost chuckled at that memory, but his lips trembled slightly, and as he scooted over to Yata's side of the table and pulled Yata into a silent embrace he swore that the other male only cried harder into his shoulder, his body shaking and shaking and shaking and his fingers gripping Fushimi's shirt in an act of dependence. Already, in that small living room, something new, though familiar with them both, was stirring.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, unchanged in speed or tempo, carrying with it the memories of blood, the makings of tears, the passage of time and the future that was to come.

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**I hope you enjoyed this one! I actually find it a bit tricky to identify with Yata, I think his feelings are a bit too straightforward for me. Saru, however, is someone I can relate to. His jealousy is not new to me, wwww (rest assured though, I am not a stalker)****Please leave reviews! Reviews are great. Yes, they are.**


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